Being a teenager is seven years of navigating through fog. We were all once at the helm of our ships, feeling unsure and invincible, searching for ourselves.

I will keep my teenage dreams in snowglobes that I will shake when I need courage.

I’ve always seen touch as the true channel for understanding, the landline before there was a landline, grounded not under grass between poles but in flesh and trust.

Memories must breathe to stay alive. You are the sole diver responsible for scooping them from the sea floor and resurfacing them, nourishing them with the light of day and attention. This way, they can sink safely down to be recovered once again, when you are older and really need them.

You can roll their pink Silly Putty minds over the continuous scroll of disheartening content, and they will absorb the dark marks.